In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered industriously at a typewriter. Rain started to pummel the roof of the pavilion, which coalesced into sheets and rumbled to the cement below. But whatever she may have said was lost as Gerald pinned her to the wall, the point of the sword at her throat. His job as a painter was wearing him down acutely as he aged. Then blackness.
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